Four Letter Words
by Melody of Words
Summary: "The boy should have known" -bass, care;fear;dare;want;know; love what this is- BxC, oneshot, Chuck-sided, R&R?


**author's notes: Finally finished :) I'm sorry I don't write as much as I used to (or want to!), but I'm not caught up with the series at all :(**

**disclaimer: ha.**

**title: **_four letter words_  
**summary: **_the boy should have known_  
**tag: **_bass, carefeardarewantknow(love) what this is  
_**REVIEW :)**

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four letter words.

_carefeardarewantknow  
_what this is.

.

His second nanny once told him to avoid four letter words.

"They're the worst things you can say, young man, you hear? They'll bring nothing but ill to you-don't you ever say 'em again!" He's whacked once, twice, thrice, and sent on his way. He tries to learn his lesson, but the boy should have known.

_Bass_ is a four-letter word, after all.

.

Well, sex isn't a four letter word, so he goes after that with all fervor. Lust is a four letter word, but he prefers to call it 'the sexual attraction held by one human being for another'- which is both almost politically correct and 48 letters wrong, so that's okay, too. He honestly doesn't care for improving his lecherous ways. Why should he? Why bother being the man his father is supposed to be?

He's explaining his philosophy to a steaming Blair one day, when she slaps him on the arm.

"Are you telling me you're not even going to try and see how good you can be? You're not even going to explore your potential for greatness?" she asks him tightly, chest heaving.

He stares at her in slight surprise. "What? Are you caring?"

She brushes off his question, choosing instead to increase the ferocity of her glare.

"You have all these stupid, important talents-"

"Talents?" he asks her incredulously. "Are you alright?" For Blair to praise him, she clearly must be on something.

"I'm perfectly fine!" she snaps. "You're not! Don't you realize the future you have ahead of yourself? You have to go out there into your father's business, and make it succeed! You have to lead the way in the business world!"

Somewhere along her continuous rant on what he's meant to be, he notices almost absentmindedly that her "have to"'s turn into "going to"'s. He smiles to himself, listening to the picture she paints for him.

"You're going to be ama-"

"Yeah, maybe," he says, interrupting her.

Maybe. Maybe's okay.

Maybe isn't a four letter word.

.

_care_.

.

"Hey, Waldorf, are you any good at art?"

The question's out of the blue -and stupid, stupid, stupid!- but he asks it nonetheless.

"I drew a lot when I was little," she tells him slowly, raising her head up from the pillow where she had been plotting.

"Show me."

Their latest scheme of social destruction, meant for a new queen wannabe, is thrust aside to make way for Blair's glorious kindergarten artwork.

He snorts. "Didn't you know how to color within the lines?"

She flushes, before recovering quickly with a sniff. "I was a free thinker. Coloring outside the lines shows my innovative, pioneering spirit."

"Innovative, pioneering spirit…" he repeats in amusement, observing the rapid return of her blush. The last page in her scrapbook catches his interest, and he effortlessly blocks Blair's frantic attempts to cover it. "What's this?" he asks, frowning.

"Art," she answers promptly.

"What's this?" he asks again, not amused. She coughs, clearly flustered, but it doesn't bring him any satisfaction.

"That… would be my dream castle," she mutters, looking away. "Don't you dare laugh." He doesn't laugh.

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. Like you could make me laugh," he says. "You have the humor of my father, Waldorf." He doesn't look to see if he's hurt her, but keeps his eyes fixed on the slightly crumpled paper. His frown remains glued to his face.

"Well," she begins, huffing. She doesn't finish her sentence, but stares at her old drawing to figure out what has Chuck so… ruffled. It's a huge, glittery pink castle (although she really should have thought bigger and shinier), and in front of the castle are a bride and groom. The bride is nothing more than a stick figure with brown hair and a light gray gown, while the groom appears to be wearing a shining suit of armor. A terribly drawn suit of armor, but the groom is a knight all the same. Compared to the groom, the bride looks rather like a malnourished peasant.

"Who are they?" Chuck asks, knowing the answer before she says it.

"Well… that's me, and that was supposed to be Nate," she says.

"Supposed to be?"

"I… lacked artistic flair, okay? Nate's eyes aren't misshapen like that, and his hair doesn't look like brown sticks." Chuck's frown grows even deeper as she launches into a brutal assessment of Crayon Nate.

"Well, what about you?" he asks abruptly, interrupting her as he is prone to do.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Do you think you drew yourself right?"

"Naturally. Well, that's supposed to be me in the future."

"In the future…" he muses, a feeling of alarm growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes. Thinner. Like that," she says, pointing at herself.

"Thinner?"

"Yes! Are you listening to what I'm saying at all?"

"Why do you need to be thinner?"

"Um, hello? Do you see me modeling my mom's dresses for her?" she says, as if that explains everything.

"Has your mom ever designed a gray wedding dress before?" he asks suddenly.

"No, Chuck. Why would anyone design a gray wedding dress?" She gives him an odd look.

As if _he's _the insane one.

His alarm grows. Why is she wearing a gray wedding dress, then? What does the gray signify? He's somehow transformed from an aloof partner-in-crime to an all too worried mother hen. Chuck Bass, get a grip, he tells himself firmly.

..._But what does that gray mean?_

"Then why are you wearing a gray wedding dress?" he asks finally, having mulled the question feverishly for a minute.

"The white wouldn't show up on the paper."

2 seconds of awkward (on his part) silence later, she makes an announcement. "Chuck, I feel sick. I don't want to talk anymore"

"Sick how?" he asks noncommittally, refusing to care once more in the slightest.

"Sick, like… goo," she tells him vaguely. "Disgusting goo. Goo that will ruin your clothes."

He's out of the house within 30 seconds. This whole friendship-relationship-thing with her is entirely too ridiculous. According to him, that wannabe Blair's targeting doesn't need to be humiliated as soon as possible, and Blair's kindergarten art is terrible.

...Good lord, now he's caring?

To care is to lose all manliness, and that's really the only quality that he finds pride in. No, no, he doesn't care.

.

_fear_.

.

He doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly he's the first to know about her bulimia. Dorota's next, but he's the first.

"Blair, you idiot," he says, hurling his fear far away, "you're too beautiful for that." The words just slip out, like the tears from her eyes. She looks up from the toilet, her slender fingers white from clenching the rim.

"Huh?" she manages.

Oh, no. He's fighting back a blush now. This isn't the time to blush, this is the time to step in and be the hero of her drawing.

"I said you're an idiot," he tells her after a pause. Her forehead wrinkles, and his overactive imagination pictures her face crumpling to pieces. His fear is reeled back to him. In a flash, he's at her side on his knees, pulling her away from her toilet. He pulls her to the wall, and she sits down obediently on his right, allowing his arm to be around her.

"Even you can't say it," she mutters almost inaudibly.

"Yes I can," he tells her in his best hero-voice. Say what?

Oh, no. Oh. No. He watches helplessly as she bends her head down. Maybe it's his gut instinct, or maybe he has a newly awakened sixth sense, but somehow he knows that she's crying.

What would Nate do? What would Nate do? He asks himself frantically. Awkwardly, hesitantly, he brings his hand from where it rests limply by her right arm to her shoulder and presses her even closer.

He has no idea what to say. His mouth opens, and he thinks he's just saying her name over and over.

"Waldorf… Blair… beautiful Blair…"

Her head pops up, and he freezes.

"What?" he asks dumbly.

"Say it again," she whispers. "What did you just say?"

This time he can't fight back the blush.

"I said your name," he tells her slowly. Then, with a burst of determination- "I called you beautiful." She leans her head back against the wall, and he moves his arm so she'll be more comfortable. They're silent- he doesn't have any words, doesn't want to speak.

"Liar," she whispers suddenly. He stares at her uncomprehendingly.

"Me?"

"Well, of course. Who else?"

He feels guilty for being relieved to hear her regular sass return. "I'm not lying, Waldorf."

"Yes, you are, Bass."

"No, I'm not, Blair."

"Stop talking to me like I'm in kindergarten," she snaps.

"Fine. Stop calling me a liar."

"No. I'm telling you the truth."

"No, you're in denial."

"Shut up! I'm not! I'm being perfectly, completely, normal!" She quivers as she turns her head to look at her toilet. "Well, I was almost normal. You interrupted me."

He doesn't like how tired she sounds. It chills him more than her glares ever could.

"I interrupted you on your way to normal? You ought to be more grateful, Blair. I saved your messed up life, and you know it," he says, forcing himself to be angry.

"My messed up life is just fine, thank you very much, _Bass_!" she shoots back. "Just go back to your little whorehouse and leave me alone."

"You know what, _Waldorf_? I don't think I will. I think," he says, standing up angrily, "that I'm going to get you out of this stupid bathroom"- he yanks her up roughly- "and show you what life is like!" He's dragging the shocked brunette out of the bathroom and almost out of her room when she snaps out of her daze and kicks him in the shin. Before he's even hit the floor, she's exploding.

"You think I don't know what life is like? You think I don't know that everyone says Serena is more fun? You think I don't agree? You don't know anything! Of course I know I don't have a life! I'm queen of Constantine, but she's queen of the city! Do you see me with celebrities? Am I on the cover of the tabloids? Of course not. And do you know why I don't have the life my best friend does? Do you know what she has that I don't?" Her voice has become scarily soft. She bends down to face Chuck, who's forgotten the pain in his leg. "She's thinner," she whispers. Her head flops forward, her hair covers her face, and her shoulders shake. "More beautiful."

He pulls her down beside him, and they lay on the floor of her bedroom. He listens to her crying, and doesn't say a word, choosing instead to pass tissues to her one at a time.

"You know," she sniffles, holding up a used tissue towards him, "I think Nate looks at her more often. Am I going crazy?" He silently picks up her wastebasket from beside him and holds it underneath the tissue. "I mean, maybe it is just me. But maybe it's not, you know?" She drops the tissue in, and he puts the wastebasket back. "I mean, what if he's always liked her more? She's so much more… just… she's more than I am. Do you get it?" He's in the middle of handing her another tissue when she asks him. His fingers shake, and he doesn't answer. "Chuck? Do you get it?" He turns his head suddenly, his eyes on fire.

"No, I don't, Blair," he tells her tightly. He rises to his knees and glares at her. "If you were Serena, you would be disgusted by me. If you were Serena, you wouldn't tell me I had to 'explore my potential'. If you were Serena, I'd think you were low. _Cheap_. I couldn't trust you. If you only knew…" he stops. It's not the time. "Be glad you're not Serena, Waldorf," he tells her instead.

She stares up at him for 3 seconds before rising to her own feet. He dusts off his trousers and stands with her.

"Take me to the Plaza, Bass," she sniffs. "I need ice cream." He can't help but grin.

"How about a burger?" he asks her, trying to keep the giddiness out of his tone.

"Ew, no." She slaps him lightly on the shoulder. "What do you think I am, a peasant?"

He's so happy, it scares him. Just how scared was he? How on earth did this brunette force him to fear for her- to care?

It must be force. She must be a witch.

But as he watches her scarf down two scoops of the "highest quality" vanilla ice cream, he can't help but accept her spell.

.

_dare_.

.

They're in the limo together, and her eyes are still red, but he can't comfort her. She's just broken up with Nate.

He feels unbelievably, uncontrollably happy.

For this reason, he's sitting a seat apart from her. If he touches her once, God knows what he'll do.

All through the night, she's been driving him to the very brink of insanity, to his limit of desire. He can't help the words that spill out of his mouth at the very memory.

"You were so good up there," he tells her in a low voice.

He can barely keep up with the conversation, doesn't even know if they're talking or not. He feels high, like he's floating, like he's tethered to her, like…

Like she's kissing him.

Which she is.

His lower brain jumps into action right away, but somehow he manages to regain control of his sanity. "You sure?" he asks her, pushing her a little away. She kisses him again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that this is nothing compared to what she would've given to Nate, but it's a gift all the same, right?

…_No_.

They're half clothed, but he moves off of her one more time.

"Blair," he whispers. "Are you _absolutely_ _posit_-"

"Yes."

He doesn't make a move, and he knows that he's killing the mood, but he can't help but freeze. He can't help but remember a picture of a castle, and Nate in shining armor, and the girl beneath him in a gray wedding grown.

"Chuck," she murmurs, her breath ghosting over his cheek as she leans up to him. He represses a shiver. "I dare you to be with me right now." He still doesn't answer. "I dare you to forget about Nate. Honestly," she adds, "I'd really like you to forget that jerk."

It's just like her to know the embarrassing cause of his hesitation (since when does Chuck Bass care about others' feelings?), and it's just like her to challenge him instead of counseling him, and it's just like her to reassure him like this, even though he's the one who should be expertly making her feel good. It's so much like her, that all thoughts in his head are wiped out with _BlairBlairBlairBlairBlair_, and he descends upon her again.

.

_want_.

.

Now, this is not part of the plan. Not at all. Yes, he knew that she was much higher up on his list of priorities than the women he normally bedded, but he didn't expect this.

Not at all.

How on earth did he… no. It's too much to think, let alone say. How on earth can he possibly make this feeling into something more manly? Something more Chuck Bass?

…He can't. The best he can do is to say he wants to sleep with her again, but that doesn't even come close to the craziness fluttering in his stomach at the mere thought of Blair Waldorf.

He wants her. No, he doesn't just _want_ her. He wants _her_.

He wants her cunning and her smile; her mischief and her innocence; her mind and her heart.

He wants her messed up life, and it's driving him insane.

He wants the look that she gives Nate when she kisses him, and he can't help but think feverishly about the sly glance she spares him while kissing her lucky, sorry excuse of a boyfriend.

He wants her so much, and it's the scariest feeling in the world, because it feels like he's flying in the air, supported only by a thread in her hand.

It's the scariest feeling in the world, because what if someone gives her scissors? What's he supposed to do when she tells him to go kill butterflies?

Somehow, this desire pooling in his stomach- that's where his heart has fallen- makes him feel like a king.

A king who doesn't mind being stepped on by his lady.

He punches a locker. What is _wrong_ with him?

.

_know_.

.

He knows what this is. He knows exactly what this is. He knows what the butterflies, the lust, the desire, the need, the everything-wrong-with-him are.

But he refuses to say it to her. He won't tell her no matter what he wants, no matter how she pleads, no matter how he screws up or who she dates.

He won't tell her what she wants to hear. He definitely won't say the words that are bursting out of his chest, the words that are longing to spill out of his mouth in an undignified confession. He won't tell her that his heart beats to the rhythm of three words, eight letters- "just say it"- "no".

He won't tell her.

He _won't_ tell her.

He won't _tell_ her…

_Until it's too late._

_._

Since childhood, his father silently warned him to avoid four letter words. He was broken once, and that was all it took, because no matter how hard he tried to learn his lesson, he really should have known.

_Love_ is a four letter word, after all.

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**review? :)**


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